


Insomnia

by Suspicious_Popsicle



Category: Tales of Vesperia
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-06-28
Packaged: 2018-04-06 15:04:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4226388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suspicious_Popsicle/pseuds/Suspicious_Popsicle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Flynn knew that not everything Yuri had been through or done could be shared, he had still wished to provide what support he could, even if all that support amounted to was the quiet presence of a friend during a lonely, sleepless night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Insomnia

**Author's Note:**

> Based off both an 'imagine your OTP...' prompt from tumblr, and also a headcanon about how Yuri copes with unpleasant memories and thoughts.
> 
> Disclaimer: The characters and settings in this story are from Tales of Vesperia and do not belong to me.

The warm darkness cradles Flynn, urging him back toward the shores of gentle sleep. His tired mind is all too ready to follow, to drift away, or perhaps he's already drifting? There in that comfortable space between sleeping and waking, his movements are slow. Aware of the drag from the blanket clinging around himself and Yuri, it doesn't yet occur to him to pull free or lift it away. Instead, his hand skims dreamlike over bare skin as far as the blanket will allow, then washes back again like the rolling tide. Yuri hums quietly and curls a little closer. His arm is hooked over Flynn's waist and their legs are tangled beneath the sheets. Yuri rolls his shoulder into the comfort of Flynn's touch. He's warm beneath Flynn's palm.

Suspended in the warmth of slept-in sheets and strong arms, they lay together, bodies on the cusp of waking and minds wreathed in sleep, caught in a moment that might later feel like nothing more than the frayed edge of a dream, or might lead them fully into awareness. Yuri sighs and butts his head against Flynn's chest, snuggling into the pillow he's made of Flynn's shoulder. His hair tickles against Flynn's cheek and lips. He stills again, his breathing deep and even, and Flynn's hand continues its slow strokes over his back.

* * *

 

They had gotten very little sleep last night. Yuri had arrived in Zaphias late in the evening, and Flynn had seen the darkness of his mood roiling like storm clouds around him in spite of his put-on good cheer. He had wasted little time in practically dragging Flynn to bed where thoughts and words had been unnecessary. It hadn't been at all an unpleasant way to celebrate his return...but it _had_ been troubling to see Yuri struggling on his own again. He had clammed up when Flynn had tried to coax him to talk, and cocooned himself in Flynn's sheets.

It had been clear from his arrival that Yuri wouldn't get much sleep that night. Flynn had known him long enough to be able to predict that. He certainly hadn't been so unobservant as to miss the fact that Yuri hadn't drifted off as they lay back-to-back, but rather had lain there, awake and thinking, mind ticking over whatever worry had tangled its way through the workings of his thoughts. Yuri had been a warm, tense lump beneath the covers, almost perfectly still as he hid, which was the worst possible way to disguise his sleeplessness given his usual restless tendencies. Flynn had waited patiently, there for Yuri should he choose to reach out, but, unburdened by insomnia and weary after a long day and passionate reunion, sleep had crept up upon Flynn and claimed him.

* * *

 

Is he drifting off or waking? Flynn isn't alert enough to be sure. He feels Yuri move against him, almost burning hot beneath the sheets, but pleasantly so. The temperature outside the covers is practically a physical weight, and he pulls Yuri a little closer, pressing his nose against his hair and breathing deeply. Yuri smells of childhood, of a refuge, but there is also that hint of excitement there—adventure...desire. Something stirs in Flynn, prodding him towards wakefulness.

Yuri's feet are moving, rubbing against Flynn's where their ankles cross. Seeking more of his warmth, Flynn bends his knee, sliding his thigh up between Yuri's. The heat builds. He feels something poke against his leg and hears Yuri's breath hitch, feels Yuri's fingers twitch against his back. He kisses the top of Yuri's head. The gesture is automatic, softened by affection that carries through even his sleep-fogged mind. He realizes that his hand has stilled on Yuri's back, and he begins rubbing again, fingers tracing overlapping orbits as they circle. Arching his back to press more fully against Flynn, Yuri moans softly in the back of his throat. He is still using Flynn's shoulder as a pillow, and his face is hidden. Flynn touches his lips to Yuri's hair once more, a lingering suggestion of a kiss.

* * *

 

Flynn hadn't been sure what exactly woke him two hours past midnight. It certainly hadn't been Yuri slipping out of bed, because the sheets had been cool when Flynn had crawled groggily over them to get up. A quick check of his quarters had made it clear that Yuri had gone wandering. The only clue he'd left as to where his insomnia was taking him had been the sheathed Second Star leaning against the wall near Flynn's window. Yuri wouldn't have gone far without that, and Flynn had had a pretty good idea of where to start looking. He'd pulled on his pants, heedless of the wrinkles from where they'd been hastily dropped and left on the floor. He had put on a plain nightshirt fresh from his clothes chest, and draped a blanket around his shoulders to ward off the ever-present chill of the palace halls. Yawning, he'd set out into the sleeping palace to find Yuri.

Ever since Flynn could remember, Yuri had been like that. He carried ghosts with him: worries and failures, the dead and the suffering. His burdens had only increased with time and trial and his own decisions. Sometimes, when those ghosts crowded too thick in his mind or when events stirred them up, they would rise to haunt Yuri, devouring his peace of mind and leaving him unable even to escape into slumber. He'd developed ways of coping with it. Usually just taking a walk would help. Something about thinking on his feet seemed to make it easier for him to sort through his problems. If that didn't work, well...Yuri had other ways of dealing with unquiet ghosts.

* * *

 

Yuri rocks against him and shivers travel the length of Flynn's body, gently shaking him awake. He feels that familiar pressure building between his own legs now and bites his lip as Yuri slowly slides his hips forward. He isn't quite awake yet. Flynn can tell because there's no haste at all in the sinuous flex of his spine that has him pressing forward and falling back, reflexively seeking the pleasure of touch before he's even awake enough to savor it. The only sound he makes is a quiet sigh.

Lightly, Flynn strokes Yuri's skin, fingertips and palms traveling over him in ticklish currents that might ease Yuri out of the depths of sleep to the waking surface. He traces the contours of muscle, built and trained over the years. Scars are mementos: marks of battles and the stories behind them, reminders to treasure each other in this dangerous world. Flynn runs the backs of his fingers over Yuri's scars, feeling their texture and contours with uncallused skin, feeling the warmth of Yuri's body, the slow rise and fall of his breath. He could drift off just like this—thinks he might have done so only a few hours earlier—except Yuri is still moving against him, slow thrusts with no rhythm to them. He pauses in-between, perhaps not even awake enough to remember from moment to moment what he is seeking.

The room is dimly lit when Flynn finally opens his eyes. Early sunshine is seeping through the curtains, drenching the room in a clear, gray light. It reminds him of looking up at the sky from underwater, and his mind wanders from there to summers spent with Yuri in the Lower Quarter, teaching him to swim, their thin legs treading beneath the water, occasionally brushing up against each other as Flynn held Yuri's arms and promised not to let him go under.

Flynn slides his leg down from between Yuri's until their feet are once more crossed at the ankle in a confusion of bone knobs and warm skin. He treads water beneath the blankets, foot slipping up and down Yuri's calf. That, more than the gentle petting draws Yuri from sleep. He pushes himself atop Flynn, groaning petulantly at the loss of more pleasurable contact. Smiling at the tangled mass of midnight just below his chin, Flynn trails his hand up Yuri's back to his shoulder and then to his hair. He brushes it lovingly back from Yuri's face and traces his features—smooth brow, long nose, fine cheekbones, thin lips. He feels the kiss against his fingers and murmurs, voice still roughened by what little sleep he got:

“Good morning.”

* * *

 

Yuri had learned to cook years ago, and to say he had a knack for it was both true and, to Flynn's mind, an unfair way of describing his skill. When Yuri cooked, he put effort into it. While he had always made altering recipes seem easy, Flynn knew it was more than just an instinct for flavors. Yuri put thought into the food he cooked, and he deserved full credit for the delicious results of his efforts.

When he had disappeared from Flynn's bedroom without taking his sword, there weren't many places he might have gone. Trudging down opulent halls and polished marble stairs with his blanket trailing along behind him, Flynn had made his way straight to the palace kitchens in search of Yuri. He'd known his best friend to use his skill with cooking to occupy his mind in the past, and he had hoped that Yuri still maintained the habit. He hadn't relished the thought of searching the entire imperial palace for his wayward friend.

Flynn's hunch had paid off. He'd found Yuri in the kitchen, his back to the doorway as he furiously mixed ingredients together in a bowl. Yuri had gotten dressed, but he hadn't bothered to button up his shirt. Flynn felt cold just watching him, but he'd known better than to interfere.

Without a word, Flynn had sat down at one of the tables. Sleep had still been calling to him, but he hunched in his blanket and forced himself to stay awake. Sometimes, if left unprompted, Yuri would talk about what was troubling him. Sometimes, he held it all in no matter what. Either way, Flynn hadn't been willing to leave him alone with his burdens. He'd promised Yuri again and again that he would help shoulder whatever he could. While he knew that not everything Yuri had been through or done could be shared, he had still wished to provide what support he could, even if all that support amounted to was the quiet presence of a friend during a lonely, sleepless night.

* * *

 

Levering himself up, Yuri drags his tired body the small distance it takes for him to sag back against the mattress, now face-to-face with Flynn. He's having trouble keeping his eyes open, lashes fluttering over hints of gray iris as his lids fight for at least a few more minutes of sleep. He makes a noise, sound without form that holds a question. Flynn can't tell if he's asking the time or wondering why the pleasant sensations have faded.

Yuri's lips are warm when Flynn kisses them, and still beneath his own. He lingers there, but even so he's pulling away before he feels Yuri begin to return the kiss. Flynn can't help but smile to see him so sluggish. Yuri has never been a morning person, but it's always been amusing to compare his quicksilver movements when awake to the dulled reactions of an early start. Flynn kisses him again, quickly, and pulls back in time to see Yuri kiss empty air. He laughs quietly, little more than a breath between them, and takes pity on his friend. Their third kiss lasts, a slow minuet as Flynn matches Yuri's lethargic movements. The gentle meeting and parting of lips is a warm comfort, and Flynn finds himself sinking into it, lulled by it, until once more he isn't sure if he's waking or drifting, only that he is content.

Their hands wander, fingers making a languid exploration of each others' bodies. The warmth of those light touches translates to tingles that race along Flynn's nerves. They raise goosebumps along his arms and spread across his scalp. A pleasant shiver runs down Flynn's spine just ahead of Yuri's fingers. He isn't feeling the urgency of the stiffness between his legs just yet, but the potential grows with every movement of skin against skin.

Yuri's usual impatience begins to show as he wakes up. He slides fully atop Flynn, straddling him and pressing so close that Flynn is sure he can feel Yuri's heartbeat echoing his own. The kiss remains slow, a steady pulse of pliant lips, the bump of chins and brush of noses. Yuri's hair is falling down around them and spreading out across his back. It caresses the insides of Flynn's wrists where he rubs over Yuri's shoulder blades. His fingers no longer pause at every scar as he rubs Yuri's back. He's wrapped up in the myriad sensations beneath his palms: the shift and slide of Yuri's muscles, the expansion of his breathing, each little stretch forward as Yuri kisses him, every push that rubs their hips together. Flynn's hands roam down Yuri's back and up his sides. He doesn't mean to tease, only to hold, to feel Yuri in his arms, but he grazes what must be a ticklish spot. The kiss is broken as Yuri gasps. His shoulders lift and his hips grind into Flynn's, bringing them together with aching sweetness. He groans as Flynn's breath catches in his throat.

* * *

 

It had been a long time since Yuri had made chocolate lace cookies. It had never been one of his favorite recipes, being—as he'd told Flynn on multiple occasions—more trouble than it was worth. He'd had his reasons for choosing that recipe that night. Flynn had watched Yuri mix up the sticky, lumpy batter and then transfer it by spoonfuls onto waiting cookie sheets where he had spread each mound almost impossibly thin before sliding the tray into the oven. Quick as he was, he hadn't once managed to finish preparing an entire tray before the cookies in the oven had finished baking and had to be pulled out and plated to cool. It had certainly kept him busy.

Flynn hadn't offered to help. He'd merely watched, only there on the off chance that Yuri would want to talk, but mostly simply to remind him that he wasn't alone. When sleep had left him nodding off at the table, Flynn had stolen one of the cooling cookies. If Yuri had noticed, he hadn't said anything.

He'd finished his baking over the next hour without a word. Once all the cookies were done, he'd found himself a block of chocolate, chopped it up, and melted it down. Yuri had then brought his pot of melted chocolate to the table and sat down across from Flynn. He'd gone through the plates of cookies, spreading one with chocolate and topping it with another to make a sweet, lacy sandwich. The number of full plates had shrunk as he'd worked until he'd had only one, piled high with finished cookies. In the end, there had been one cookie leftover without a mate, and he'd offered it wordlessly to Flynn before getting up to wash the dishes and pans he'd used.

They had spent over two hours in the kitchen before Yuri had finally left. He hadn't looked back to be sure Flynn would follow, but he had waited in the hall just outside. Flynn had worked a hand free of the folds of his blanket in order to reach out and take Yuri's hand in his as they returned to his room together. Exhausted and more than ready to get some sleep, Flynn had stripped down and crawled beneath the layers of sheets. He'd held the edge of the covers up for Yuri, watching the paler shadow his movements presented against the darkness as he'd shed his clothes. Yuri had crawled immediately to Flynn's side to curl up close against him. His breath had spilled warmly over Flynn's chest as he'd spoken softly.

"Thanks."

* * *

 

The space underneath the sheets feels hot as the springs at Yumanju. Flynn is breathing hard, sharp gasps for air snatched between the hungry kisses he shares with Yuri. They're moving together beneath the sheets, sweat making their skin stick and slide as Yuri rocks against Flynn, thighs spread wide. Yuri is breathing heavily, too. He keeps ducking his head beneath Flynn's chin for a minute or two as they grind together, then he's stretching up for another round of kisses. One of his hands stirs the hair crowning Flynn's head, fingers clutching and loosening as he moves. The other is curled firmly over Flynn's shoulder.

For all the mounting pleasure being generated between them, their motions are still small, still weighted by the late night and the urge to put off the morning just a bit longer. Flynn runs a hand lazily up and down Yuri's thigh. Eventually, he slows to a stop, fingers nestled in the crease between the very top of his thigh and the curve of his ass. He takes the measure of Yuri's gentle thrusts against him and begins pulling him a bit closer, holding him there just a second longer. His other hand strokes Yuri's back, letting the soothing rhythm fall into step with the pace of their thrusts.

It takes a dozy eternity of rocking like waves lapping against the side of a boat before climax finally builds around them. It's waves come crashing back from distant shores, amplified. It's over-saturation of the senses. Flynn can feel everything all at once, and it overwhelms him--skin-on-skin, trickle of sweat, pinch of nails, rub of sheets and press of chests, lips on his lips, on his chin, on his neck, sharp teeth and a tug of hair, the resonance of a groan, shallow breaths that leave him dizzy, hearts beating far too fast in the stillness that is the room beyond the bed where they've gotten lost in each other. Flynn is the first to reach that edge and plunge over as warmth blossoms across his abdomen and heat rockets up his spine. Yuri follows moments—and a few, clumsy thrusts of his hips—after. He sags against Flynn, every muscle gone limp. The rapid rise and fall of his shoulders calms slowly along with his breathing.

Drowsiness settles over Flynn, thinner and sweeter than the sleepy feeling he'd woken up with, but every bit as tempting to surrender to. The sheets are far too warm now, and he can feel the stickiness between their stomachs. Even so, there are reasons not to move: Yuri's satisfied sigh, his lips against Flynn's cheek, the gentle feeling of his fingers playing in Flynn's hair. The morning is a rare gift of peace. Lacing his fingers together over the small of Yuri's back, Flynn knows he ought to open his eyes. If he isn't careful, he could drift off just like this.


End file.
